Day 20

Mercurial in crisis, especially when
food is involved. Once I skipped
my afternoon meal for seaweed,
plucked from the bottom, brought
to that table in Media—someone’s
grandparents—with the miraculous
revelation of eating something fresh from the
earthiness of water.

Just as sure as the curl of your
hair, I will keep
eating until the cowbird
crows—chicken soup
from my mother on a visit home, all
the parts thrown in, nothing
wasted; the elusive
perfect curry, ordered
mild for the gringas; bites
off the end of a ficelle, without
grace or propriety.

Even as the salt begins
to boil up my digestive tract (in
crisis), I keep it going down (in
crisis); the only way to
handle a crisis:
to eat, with a hearty
faith in the rightness
of things.

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